Meaning, the exact time that the first bird starts singing around here in the mornings now.
A far cry from 4:15, which is when they would begin singing in late spring — that heady season when I felt like I had all the time in the world.
Even though the director texted me late last evening and relieved some of my pressure — saying that he really loved where the new pages in the play were heading, giving me that insight I needed to give the section more emotional depth; none of it changes that the summer really is almost over and I have way too much of the play left to rewrite.
Not that it’s so many pages; it’s that the pages left are crucial ones that need an indescribably focused amount of my concentration.
However, this morning, when I awoke stressed at 4:28am, I realized that I needed to change everything. Well, not everything. I just needed to change the angle from which I was looking at my trip.
There’s just no way I can be in any kind of meaningful “rehearsals” by mid-September when I still have all this contractual stuff with the director to work out before hand, and now the budget is really huge so I have no clue what Sandra’s going to want to do regarding staged readings. So I decided to just let Cosmic Timing take over and step back and allow something higher to figure out my life and stop trying to constantly connect the dots.
And I decided I would talk to my sales rep at Honda and just let him decide if I should lease the new car before I went to NY or after I came back. I have to stop worrying about the car. I’m turning it into a drama in my head and it just doesn’t need to be one.
And then I decided I want to get rid of that idea of staying in 2 different hotels when I’m in the city for Nick Cave, even though one of the hotels is the Algonquin. I decided to get an airbnb, instead, and just stay for 3 nights in a row — in Manhattan: Saturday, Sunday and Monday, and just hang out, have the meetings with Sandra and the director and then just do whatever I want. Not worry about going back and forth to Rhinebeck in the middle of those 2 Nick Cave shows. It just wasn’t making any sense to do that. It was making me nutty.
So I just gave up trying to connect the dots. Just let life happen because it’s going to happen anyway.
I also decided that I’m not going to the cemetery today. It’s funny how, some years, I will just barely notice the anniversary of Greg’s death; and other years, it becomes very active in my memory; and sometimes I’ll go to the cemetery; other times, I don’t. I don’t know why that is.
I do know that going to the cemetery makes me sad because it always becomes so clear to me, when I’m there, that everybody else forgot about him a long, long time ago. No flowers there, ever. No nothing. Just grass growing. It has been just so many years. Life went on.
I have a hard time with certain aspects of that, even though, overall, I understand that’s just the way things are. I don’t want to get morbid about any of it. But sometimes life just confounds me. It doesn’t seem to make any sense. What the heck is it — life, I mean. You know? What is it?
Plus, I’m not ready to find out if his mom has died now, too. That would be sort of final, right? His long ago doorway into this world being gone forever now, too.
This summer, he has been all over my thoughts. I just don’t know why. Late yesterday afternoon, I decided to set Tell My Bones aside for a minute, get it out of my brain completely and work on one of the chapters in Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse. They aren’t actually “chapters,” they really are more like letters; creative nonfiction memoir type letters. Anyway, the next “chapter” has been sitting on my desk, halfway finished for months now and it’s one that has a lot to do with Greg. It’s about sexual intercourse — the specific actual thing. It’s titled “A Beach to His Waves.” And while working on it for about 8 hours last night, it was funny to see how, when I am in love with a guy, I will just do anything for that guy. Anything. My focus becomes like a laser beam and nothing peripheral exists, really, except my love for that guy.
I find that so curious since, when I don’t love a guy (which is almost all the time; I don’t fall in love easily), I am indescribably independent. Self-involved. Uninterested in anything besides the constant creative thoughts that are in my head. Live alone; die alone; just be a sort of constant, eternal loner. But, Jesus, fall in love with a guy? Suddenly it’s like: Oh, yeah; my very reason for being; I forgot I had one. And then almost nothing else matters but “the guy.”
Anyway, so I’m going to be working on that chapter again today, too — the 45th anniversary of his death. Even though the chapter is only partly about him, it’s still kind of fitting.
There’s another Red Hand Files newsletter from Nick Cave in my inbox. It has something to do with PJ Harvey because I saw the picture at the top, but I haven’t read it yet.
And people in Helsinki like to post to Instagram!! Everybody loved the Conversation that Nick Cave had there last night. Even the ones who didn’t post in English — judging by the amount of exclamation points and the many rhapsodic emojis… Everyone seemed incredibly blissed out. And I mean incredibly. He is giving another one there tonight.
So, that’s me, for now. I gotta scoot. I’m just gonna let life happen to me today. I’m just gonna write. Do yoga. Do laundry. Stop trying to figure everything out. It is utterly impossible anyway.
I leave you with this, it was my favorite record at the time of Greg’s death. He didn’t care one way or the other about David Bowie, but he didn’t mind that I played the record all the time. Obviously, since Greg had very long blond hair and blue eyes, you can guess why this song became really difficult for me after he died. But it’s still a really, really cool song.
Thanks for visiting, gang. I love you more than words can say, guys. See ya!